


Nightmarescape

by DeathDirt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Gore, M/M, Mentor Trope, Soldier and Reaper don’t recognize each other trope, amnesia trope, based on a book, graphic gore, idk man I’m doing my best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-03-29 22:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19029586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathDirt/pseuds/DeathDirt
Summary: Based on the novel of the same name by T.S. Dann. Good read, check it out herehttps://www.amazon.com/Nightmarescape-T-S-Dann-ebook/dp/B00PCFXAQO





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A short thing because I was bored, may add on later.
> 
> This was also kind of rushed because my phone was dying and I just really wanted to write something. So there’s bound to be some mistakes and as always, constructive criticism welcome.

He remembers waking up in this place. Before now. He can vaguely recognize the flat, gray, dead landscape, the dark clouds above and the blackened, bare trees behind him. He’s just not sure how he got here. It started out blurry, like he had been drugged (although he also has no idea how he’d know what being drugged is like), with vague shapes and unclear outlines wavering in his vision. Something in his mind had panicked at the sensation of helplessness, with his limbs immobile and mind fuzzy, though like many things, he doesn’t know why. He looks down at himself.

He’s clad in black and grey, although that seems to just be the motif of this realm. Black leather clings to his limbs and torso, with sturdy boots and steel-tipped clawed gauntlets covering his feet and hands. There’s a weight over his head, and when he pulls at it, it turns out to be a cowl, leading into a long black trench coat down his back. He notices something thick and black bunched in the cowl and it’s apparently his own hair. Long and thick and curled, he feels it when it falls against his back, resting neatly between his shoulder blades. 

When he glances back down at himself, it seems that some of the gray parts are actually shotgun shells that are strapped to his body. At this point he doesn’t even question how he knows they’re shotgun shells and how he also knows they’re empty. Or at least empty of what they _should_ contain. He pulls one from its place and pops it open, revealing a smooth, translucent white substance. He cautiously dips a claw into it, takes a careful sniff. It’s odorless. Then he presses his tongue to it, and immediately starts spitting. _Fucking lube, and not even the good shit,_ his brain helpfully supplies. Why there would be lubricant hidden in faux shotgun shells, he had no clue. The man finally rises to his feet, having been seated on his knees until then. 

Suddenly, dirt flies up to his right. On instinct, he dives for the cover of the trees. There’s more shots, sending more dirt up or tree bark flying. He ducks from tree to tree, hoping that his black ensemble will at least partially hide him in the skeletal black forest. “Who are you?! Show yourself, or else I’m gonna aim a bit higher,” a gravelly voice calls out from the tree line. He doesn’t know that it’s a terribly good idea to come out in the open when he’s unarmed while his attacker is. Something in his head assures him that it’ll work out fine so long as he can keep close distance. Cautiously, he takes a step away from cover, hands up, hoping that the silver will give him enough of an outline for the shooter to know he’s cooperating. He takes a few more steps forward, eyes locked onto the shooter.

His outline suggests a strong, physically fit build, but the thinning white hair speaks otherwise to that. He has on a jacket, gray as everything else in this place, with darker gray along the outside edge of the front and white in the center, as well as plain black pants and boots. There’s a mask of some sort on his face, dark grey except for a long strip across where the other man’s eyes should be that seems to glow. The stranger holds a heavy rifle in his hands, with the muzzle directed straight at him. “What are you doing here?” The man growls. He doesn’t know if he should say anything or if it would be better to attempt to disarm his attacker. Shots are fired just inches away from his boots. “I won’t ask again. Tell me what you’re doing here or I will dust you faster than you can blink.” He flexes his hand, curls and uncurls it, still unsure about answering. “I don’t know,” he says finally, startled at the rough tone of his own voice. He doesn’t mean to come across as hostile, but that’s certainly what he sounds like, so it’s no surprise when the attacker lifts his rifle to chest level. “Give me a reason, punk,” he growls, “Doesn’t have to be good, any reason will do.”

“I don’t fucking _know_!” He yells suddenly. He’s not panicking per se, but he is more than a little uneasy with a rifle pointed at his middle. His breathing is shaky and heavy all of a sudden. “I don’t know how to explain this,” he says slowly, “But I just woke up here. I don’t know if I was drugged, if someone knocked me out, or...” The attacker lowers his rifle a few inches. He stares in silence for a moment. Then he grunts, throwing his rifle over his shoulder. “Newcomer then. Got a name?” He looks down at himself, expecting some kind of name to pop into his head, but he only draws up a blank. “Guess not,” the stranger says, “But you need something to call yourself.” The man takes a long look at him, taking in the details of his outfit, scoffing at it apparently. The man snorts suddenly, frightening away the calm quiet that had overtaken the area. “Your costume looks just like his edgy ass, why don’t I just give you the name of the old bastard I used to chase?”

“What’s that?”

“Reaper. You’re wearing all black anyway, though that’s just about everyone around here.” Reaper rolls the name around in his head. It sounds good. Strong. Intimidating. He likes it. “Alright then. I’m Reaper. So who’re you?” The man shrugs. “Nobody, really. While I was alive, friends called me Jack. Nowadays I just go by Soldier: 76.” The name prods at something buried in Reaper’s mind. It’s pushed aside in favor of the other thing that Soldier has mentioned. “What do you mean by that?” Soldier stares. “By ‘when I was alive’? You don’t look dead.” Soldier barks out a mirthless laugh. He shakes his head. “You haven’t seen my face. Haven’t seen yours either. Trust me, I look about as alive as everything else in this goddamn world,” Soldier says, still shaking his head. He turns on his heel and starts walking off. Reaper finally lowers his hands, glances around until he gets the idea to follow Soldier. 

“Where are you going?” Soldier: 76 stops in his tracks, looking over his shoulder at Reaper. “Where I live. And you’re not coming with.” Reaper blinks. “So what, you give me a name and now you’re going to abandon me?”

“It’s not my job to babysit every bright-eyed, bushy-tailed dumbass that manifests on my land. I figured this shit out on my own and so can you.” Soldier turns with a huff and resumes walking. Reaper contemplates the consequences of following when Soldier yells, “You try to follow me and I’ll shoot you anyway!” Reaper watches as Soldier: 76 continues on his way, not even bothering to stop when he yells his threat at Reaper. He feels a little hurt, even though there’s no reason to. Whatever. Reaper looks up and down the tree line. There has to be some kind of civilization if he follows it long enough. And if not, big deal. He’ll keep going.

Reaper takes a few steps down the line of trees, then sways. He suddenly feels like a newborn colt, trying to walk on unpracticed and wobbly legs. His vision begins to blur. The dull gray of the grass blends with the jet black skeletons to his left and the angry swirl on the horizon. He staggers forward another step, then a second, and then, finally, his knees buckle, and Reaper collapses to the ground. His arms are just as shaky as his legs; try as he might to lock his elbows straight, they won’t hold any weight, and he falls face-first into the dry grass.

-

“Get out! This place is ready to blow!” Faceless grunts rush by in dozens, desperate to escape the impending destruction like rats from a burning building. Reaper takes a cursory glance in the direction the grunts are moving, then smokes his way in the opposite direction. There’s little opposition; the grunts simply phase through him and he flows around them. Sharp nails wave through his smoke. “What are you doing? You aren’t seriously going back in there!” The woman yells. “I am! I have my own business, now keep moving!” Reaper roars right back. He doesn’t have the time or the patience to bicker with her, so he keeps moving towards the collapsing structure. 

Inside the doorway, the grunts have fully evacuated. Reaper pants heavily, either from the heat or from the effort of maintaining his smoky half-form, he doesn’t know which. As soon as he’s manifested solidly on the ground, he breaks into a sprint, quickly glancing at the open doorways that have yet to collapse, hoping to catch a glimpse of _something_. Until finally he does.

He’s gone several floors up into the building at this point, and he finally ducks into a side room where he finds them. Three bodies. He recognizes two, but the third is hidden beneath a pile of rubble. Reaper’s first instinct is to dive for the third body, but he’s quickly distracted by the other two. “You sick motherfucker! You fuckin’ killed him!” The first yells, loud and angry enough to be heard over the blaze. He’s in an outfit better suited to a Western flick star, complete with a wide-brimmed Stetson, bright red serape, and a revolver at his hip. The second man scoffs. “This wouldn’t have happened were it not for your own idiocy,” He retorts smoothly, accented voice lilting just above the roar of flames. He’s not wearing anything more than loose canvas pants, but more than that, his right arm is engulfed in a golden gauntlet. 

Reaper barely cares for either of them. He steps forward, intending to run straight to the pile of collapsed concrete, but is stopped by the outstretched gauntlet. “We’ve done our own duty, these two can burn. And with them, two thorns in Talon’s side.” Talon. That name sends a rage boiling through Reaper’s veins. His eyes are locked on the gauntlet, just barely out of sight due to his mask (when did he put on a mask? Or has he had it on this whole time?). Slowly, his clawed hand lowers, grips the shotgun sitting heavily in its holster at his hip, and tugs it free. The second man seems pleased by it, until Reaper levels the weapon at his broad chest. “Reaper? If you’re going to kill anyone, make it your enemies!”

“ **You _are_ my enemy,**” Reaper growls. The second man takes a step back. He opens his mouth to say something, but his chest is blown open by the shotgun’s blast before he can speak. The man collapses, exposed organs beating weakly. The first man is wide-eyed at the sight of the carnage. Reaper turns to him, shotgun still raised. “ _Move..._ ,” Reaper commands. He steps forward. The man holds his ground. “ _ **Out of my way!**_ ” Reaper wants to scare this man away, something deep in his chest is telling him he can’t kill this one as heartlessly as the last. But he refuses to stand down. “Ain’t no way in hell,” he says, voice unnervingly calm amidst the heat of the fire. Reaper surged forward and pulls the trigger of the shotgun. 

This one collapses as quickly as the first, lower jaw and most of his neck completely gone. 

Reaper throws his shotgun aside and hurries forward, sidestepping the bodies in his rush to get to the third. He throws rubble behind him, scrabbles at the concrete, needs to get under it, needs to get to it, to _him_ , can’t let him die, can’t let him go, it’s too early, it’s not right, he _can’t_ die-

Reaper lifts the last concrete block, knows he’s underneath-

-

Reaper bolts up, clawing at nothing but air. He’s gasping for breath, as though he’s been running for miles without a break. Reaper looks at his hands, turns them over, and his palms are as clean as they had been when he woke up. His brow furrows. He dug through solid blocks of _concrete_ , there was no way his gauntlets would be so clean and unmarked. It was impossible.

“I take it you’re done now?” 

Reaper swings his head at the voice. It’s Soldier: 76. He’s seated in an armchair across from the sofa Reaper is seated on, elbows resting on his knees and his hands hanging between his legs. “Done with what?” Reaper asks, still breathless. “First rule of the Nightmarescape, kid - you start with nothing, and you’ll never have everything. You didn’t know a damn thing about yourself when you woke up here. Nobody does at first. You start regaining bits and pieces of your life in those fainting episodes. But you’ll never quite have it all. It’s the realm’s way of natural selection, if you will.” Reaper feels lightheaded all over again. What is the nonsense being spewed at him? Reaper shakes his head. “Back... Back the fuck up,” he slurs out, “Explain shit. What the fuck is the Nightmarescape, first of all?”

“Where we are. Plenty of theories about the nature of it, but I’ve got a good one. To the best of my knowledge, it’s a manifestation of negative human energy. Anger, fear, envy, despair, all of it coalesces into this realm we sit in now. It picks people who let the negative energy consume them, you see it in your dreams while you’re alive, and then you’re trapped here after death.” Reaper stares. It has to be a cruel joke. It’s difficult to digest this information, to say the least. His eyes flick between his booted feet, his clawed hands, and Soldier sitting across from him. “So this is hell?” Reaper asks. Soldier shrugs. “According to some. It’s not hell in the traditional sense, I’ll tell you that much. More like limbo or purgatory. But even that isn’t quite right. It’s hard to fit the Nightmarescape into one particular definition. It’s just some kind of afterlife, inexplicable despite our best efforts.”

“But you said it picks the people who come here. Meaning we’ve done something wrong to be here.”

“Done something, seen something, felt something. Any number of things can get you here. There’s tons of people here that didn’t do anything other than watch their loved ones die, without inflicting any harm themselves.” Reaper grunts. He doesn’t feel any wiser for knowing where he is, or the nature of the place. He swings his feet off of the couch and to the floor. “So what now? You just...live your life? Learn more and more about yourself until you have it all?” Soldier sighs. “Not all. And you may not want all of it.” Reaper huffs and crosses his arms. “Why wouldn’t I?” Soldier leans back in his chair, sighs again. He puts a hand to his forehead. “To get chosen by the Nightmarescape, you have to be consumed by the negative energy. There’s a reason everyone is here.” Soldier leans forward again, head bowed forward. He looks up again, and Reaper swears he sees two blue glows behind his visor.

“You may find out why you’re here. It may be a blood-soaked, back-stabbing, vengeance-fueled reason, with miles of bodies and blood dogging your footsteps. And you just might not like it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An addition. McCree here is basically in his usual outfit + the bandana from his Halloween epic Undead skin. Also, a mechanic in the book is eye color, where “good” people - as the book/plot sees it - have blue eyes, “bad” people have red, and those who straddle the line have empty sockets. And they also don’t really have eyes, per se, they’re just colored glows where eyes should be, basically. 
> 
> Another note, this one more spoiler-y, plague faction is basically a subset of people in the Nightmarescape that died due to disease and the majority of them are from the Dark Ages and died from Bubonic plague. They don’t play a big part in this story, but here’s a primer anyway. PS, pay attention to that bit about Moira at the end. It’s a special tool that will help us later.

The Nightmarescape doesn’t really have proper days and nights. The overhanging clouds will occasionally get darker or lighter but it never truly gets dark unless you find some cover. Even then, it’s just a muted, dark grey. So it’s hard to gauge the passage of time after Soldier takes the new soul in under his wing. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about having someone else with him, but something about Reaper is nice after being alone for who knows how long. He’s quiet, most of the time, yet helpful. Soldier is perhaps a little bitter that this young punk gets someone to keep tabs on his corpse when he falls into an episode, though it’s superficial at best. Reaper hasn’t told him anything about the memories that are coming back to him. Soldier doesn’t mind much. His own memories are heavy enough, he doesn’t need to carry someone else’s burdens too.

Soldier guesses that it’s been roughly a week since Reaper suddenly barged into his life when they have a genuine conversation. Strangely enough, it’s all been comfortable small talk until then. “How long have you been dead?” Reaper asks while they’re checking perimeter traps for any undesirables - plague faction and the like. “Not sure,” Soldier replies, assuming that’s the end of it because that’s how a lot of their “conversations” go. “Don’t you worry about it?” Reaper presses, “Thinking of the people you could’ve left behind? Friends, family...so on.” Soldier shrugs, peers ahead to where a pussing, wriggling mass of grey struggles in a trap. He doesn’t think of it, really. Too concerned with his life now, since he could never get back to what he had before. “I don’t,” Soldier repeats. “I might’ve, before I got memories back, but as far as I know, I don’t have anybody to go back to. Most of my blood family was wiped out after the Omnic Crisis, the ones that didn’t completely disown me anyhow.” 

He really should’ve just stuck with “no”.

Reaper cocks his head. “What would anybody disown you for? Can’t imagine you were anything but perfect.” This last bit is said in a joking tone, because he is quite aware of Soldier’s temper at this point. Soldier scoffs. “Because somehow liking men is worthy of disowning, in the twenty-first century. That’s what.” Reaper almost laughs, but seems to decide better of it, and keep his mouth shut for a moment. Only a moment though, and then he follows up with the bombshell Soldier didn’t expect - “So how does sex work here?” Soldier only grumbles. He’s really sure he somehow stumbled onto a twenty-something that died a tragic death. He hopes he did. “Better be a necrophiliac, or else you’re S.O.L., and trust me on that. Someone told me the same and I thought I knew better. It was not pleasant trying to force the issue. So don’t.”

Reaper lifts his hands in a supplicating gesture. “Just wondering. Haven’t had any interest in it yet, but you made me think of it.”

“Why, because I was gay in life?”

“...Sure, let’s say it was that.” Soldier rolls his eyes. “Don’t lie to me,” he warns as they come up on the trapped plague. It’s only the third one, but they have a knack for popping in where they aren’t needed or wanted, so Soldier quickly sets up the vice he’s been carrying around for the past hour, cranks the creature’s neck between its halves, and Reaper deals the finishing blow with a hatchet swing to the thing’s head. He’s still not quite figured out the easy way, Soldier notes with a hidden smirk as Reaper hacks away at the plague’s skull until it finally crumbles away to dust. “Why did you start thinking about sex?” Soldier asks, genuinely curious now. Reaper shrugs, dropping the hatchet into a harness wrapped around his thigh. “Didn’t _just_ think of it, I’ve been wondering for a while. But you made me think of it specifically because I’d totally be down to fuck you.” 

“Please. I don’t need pity, least of all from  
you.” Reaper pauses in his walk. He seems surprised. “It’s...not pity?” He replies. “I really would. Women are fine, but you’re...I don’t know. Silver fox, gray wolf, however you want to take it. You seem like you’d be a good roll.” Reaper trots to catch back up with Soldier. The silence is filled with tension, though Soldier can’t say why Reaper’s comments are putting him on edge. It’s actually nice to get a relatively good compliment for the first time in a while. “Thanks...I guess,” he says after a moment of tense silence. 

Now he thinks of the man that keeps appearing in his memories. His name’s come up once or twice, but Jack can’t say exactly what it is. He knows that the man is a lover of sorts, or otherwise a very close friend. The kind you have sex with after work. 

Reaper makes him think of that man. They’re a lot alike. Both are snarky and sarcastic, insufferable yet loveable assholes. They both are very fond of making Jack lose his goddamn mind, in one way or another. And hell, the thighs. Soldier isn’t proud to admit that he may have given Reaper the hatchet because of the huge fucking fixation he’s developed on Reaper’s thighs. They’re fucking huge under the leather. Big and soft but still strong enough to crack skulls, as they accidentally found out the first time Reaper found a plague faction. Soldier suppresses a chuckle at the memory.

He hadn’t told Reaper what they were doing, just told him to ready up and follow. Soldier had the vice and the hatchet ready and set when they found the first. He didn’t know Reaper had fallen behind, so when he handed off the hatchet and it dropped, the moment of confusion was enough that the plague was able to scramble out, mouth frothing and teeth clacking as it struggled to bite Soldier. Reaper came up on the sight a moment later, and the mindless plague charged straight at him. He fell backward from the thing hitting his chest, or so he said. Plague faction don’t weigh much on their own, they’re all diseased, desiccated corpses without thought. Soldier knew Reaper was just surprised. Everyone is, after all. But Reaper fell, and the plague had slid off, only for its skull to be caught between Reaper’s massive thighs. Soldier told him to just crush the thing’s head and he quickly obliged, with the creature falling to dust seconds after.

And then Soldier subsequently developed a ridiculous fixation on Reaper’s thighs. It doesn’t help that in his fainting episodes, the very few that he had anymore, he sees more and more of the man in his memories. Still has no idea of his name, but many of the memories are of them together, doing one thing or another. Fighting omnics, sparring, training recruits, occasionally (often) having sex... And whoever the man is, he’s enough like Reaper that Soldier has a harder and harder time separating the two. He knows it’s just his head trying to find connections where there were none.

Soldier sighs as the next trap comes into view, also triggered and full. Reaper has been silent through the walk. Not odd, of course, but Soldier expected him to keep pushing on something. Regardless, he sets the vice down, but before he could still the creature’s thrashing head, a loud, resounding crack echoes through the empty air, and the plague crumbles. Soldier is on his feet in an instant, pulling his rifle from the magnetic holster against his back, only to lower it when he sees who fired the shot. “Well, well. Ain’t seen you hunt with a partner before, Morrison. Who’s your friend?”

“Jesse McCree,” Soldier says simply. “What do you want?” McCree puts a metal hand against his chest. “Not even a hello. Am I really that low on your list of friends?” Soldier stares. McCree huffs, setting his bandana fluttering with his breath, hand lowering to rest on the belt across his waist. “Alrighty then. Right down to business I see. I do wanna know who this fella is. Doesn’t look dangerous, but you know how I am,” McCree says, glowing blue eyes shifting between Reaper and Soldier. Soldier doesn’t holster his gun, and neither does McCree. “New soul,” Soldier says, “Popped up on my land, been with me for a while.” McCree glances back to Reaper, nodding slowly. He replaces his revolver back to its holster. “Pleasure to meet you, partner,” McCree says, tipping his hat forward in greeting. Soldier looks at Reaper because he’s suddenly gone still. Stone-still, like a deer in headlights. “Reaper? Hey. You about to go?” Soldier asks, putting a hand on Reaper’s shoulder to gently shake him. Reaper shakes his head, just as still as death. McCree cocks his head. “Y’all good there? I can go get Shrike, if ya need.”

Reaper takes a step back. Soldier stares more because Reaper, despite knowing absolutely nothing about the Nightmarescape or its rules or denizens, simply does not run or back down. “I’m going back,” Reaper suddenly half-yells, turning tail and nearly running back towards the house at the center of the property. “Huh. Odd partner you got there,” McCree comments. Soldier grunts. “Yeah. What did you come for?”

“Can’t even talk with my old commander now? Come on, Jack, lighten up a bit.”

“Tell me what you’re here for and get out. I told you already, I’m not interested in your crusade.” McCree scoffs. “It ain’t a crusade. It’s makin’ things right. But that’s beside the point and I know we done had this argument before, so let’s leave it at that. There’s somethin’ been goin’ on I thought you should know about.” Soldier glances across the barren landscape, as though anything or anyone might sneak up on them. McCree does the same, though, because there’s no telling who wants what information. “Doomfist has been gettin’ aggressive recently,” McCree continues, in a more hushed town, “And the plagues are comin’ out more and more, and in greater numbers. There’s rumors goin’ around that O’ Deorain, the geneticist woman, has got a way to go back.” Soldier stares for a moment. “Back where?” He asks, but he already knows the answer. “Land of the living,” McCree replies. “It’s only rumors, ‘course, and she’s a shifty kind anyway, don’t nobody know where she is. But I figured I’d tell ya anyway. You deserve to know just as much as anyone else.” 

Soldier nods. “Alright. Thanks. How’s the old team?” McCree barks a laugh. “I tell ya what, I ain’t seen Rein have this much fun since he had long hair. He ‘n Ana been tryin’ somethin’ out, seems like it’s goin’ well too. Also found that Om that Torb was takin’ care of, E-54. He’s a tad easy to scare but he’s takin’ well to life here. Ain’t seen anybody else, though. Least, nobody we know. Ain’t seen Hana or Lú for sure, since I know you worry ‘bout them comin’ here,” McCree adds. If nothing else, he comes to make sure Jack doesn’t freak out with worry about Hana. Those two were so close, you could’ve called them father and daughter and neither would have argued, and McCree knows that Jack doesn’t like being completely in the dark concerning Hana, even if he doesn’t show it. 

“That’s it. I’ll be headin’ back to camp now. Let me know if anythin’ happens out here, will ya?” McCree asks as he turns back the way he came. Soldier nods, but McCree is already walking. He holsters his rifle, looks between the next trap and the trodden grass leading back to the house. 

Part of him worries about Reaper. Reaper is not fearful of anything, and to see him run off from McCree like that was...odd. On the other hand, though, there’s still a few more traps left to check, and if they aren’t checked now, the plague could very well escape and then get to the house. It’s not a massive worry, but the plague also have a habit of attracting others of their kind, and while one plague is no effort to take out, twenty or thirty is something else entirely. Soldier huffs and takes off down the trail of traps. Reaper will get it when Soldier gets back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short update, sorry. Couldn’t figure out how to continue the plot/story without a clear and concise break in the narrative here because, honestly, these flashbacks and Reaper’s “mysterious” backstory are the main focus.
> 
> I’ll be working to try for another update before the end of the week, but there’s no guarantees since I’m also trying to work on four separate stories at one time.

The four remaining traps were all empty, but the trek back to the house was rather lonely. Soldier is surprised at the feeling. He’s been in the Nightmarescape long enough without anybody else that he doesn’t think loneliness should get to him anymore. Yet there it is, a solid weight settled into his chest that lifts the closer he gets to the house. It’s nothing special, an old-time farm house, probably from the early 1800s or something like that. It’s wood siding is cracked and falling off, the walls are riddled with holes from bullets and numerous other things, and portions of the roof are falling in, but, Jack thinks, he’s done a good job of fixing it up. It’s never going to be as good as it was in the world of the living, but it’s at least liveable. 

Soldier steps over the trapped welcome mat to open the door, then takes a morbid peek beneath it. Nothing but dried black ink and dust settled at the bottom of the pit. Soldier steps into the house, largely quiet, except for soft booted footfalls overhead. Reaper must have heard him come in because the sounds stop, then travel to the far side of the ceiling, descend into the wall, and then Reaper is visible in the doorway. “Hey-“

“Did he leave?” Reaper interrupts, quickly pacing to the door to shut it. “Yeah... What’s wrong?” Soldier asks him. He hopes Reaper hasn’t gone completely mad in the span of an hour. “I know him,” Reaper says simply, frantically shutting all the windows and jerking the moth-eaten curtains shut over them. “I saw him. In one of my memories. I... I _killed_ him! I was the one who put him here!” Reaper, possibly realizing what a mistake he may have just made, backs against the doorframe to the next room. Soldier stares blankly at him. “You killed McCree?”

“Yes! I fucking shot him! What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck...” Reaper begins pacing, pushing his claws beneath his cowl to dig into his skull. Soldier doesn’t know how to feel about this confession. 

Thus far, he’s trusted Reaper. He hasn’t been hostile at all and, quite frankly, he was nice to have around, even if he liked to poke fun every now and then at Soldier. But the fact that he _killed_ McCree was something else entirely. Soldier won’t kick him out for it - Soldier wasn’t above killing family himself, or so he’s convinced of - but it casts Reaper in a different light. McCree’s only real enemies were Talon, specifically the Reaper back in the living world. They’d known each other to some degree, of that Soldier was sure, but he’d never learned, or remembered if he’d learned, how they were connected. And of course he never bothered to ask again because that life was behind him, there’s no reason to pry when it doesn’t matter anymore. Something pricks at the back of his mind, asks _What if Reaper is **the** Reaper?_ It’s gone a moment later, though. Soldier knows exactly how to tell for sure.

“Mask,” he says, already stepping forward to take it. Reaper stumbles further backward. “What?”

“Mask,” Soldier repeats, “Take it off.” He hasn’t mentioned or cared enough about the thing to make Reaper take it off before now but this is the only way to know for sure. Reaper feels at his face and seems surprised that there’s something there. “The fuck...?” He whispers, likely to himself. Soldier wonders why he doesn’t know but also thinks that it’s because it manifested during one of his first fainting episodes. He hadn’t paid any attention then because he hadn’t planned on Reaper staying. And then the mask was on when he found Reaper awake a few hours later and just figured Reaper would take it off when he was ready. But now, it was separating Soldier from the one thing he needed as proof of whether Reaper was worth keeping around.

Reaper still tries to back up when Soldier marches toward him, but the Soldier’s long strides catch up to him easily. He grabs the mask by the top and pulls it off. It comes off easily, without resistance, and there’s wisps of smoke where straps would normally be to hold it against someone’s face. The face that stares back at him is...mangled, but not in the usual way. Of course he has the common traits of someone in the Nightmarescape - bits of missing flesh, exposed bone, in this case his jaw and teeth, and numerous scars - but he’s also strangely whole. Most of his face, at least, seems to be largely intact, and again, Soldier is very strongly reminded of _him_. Reaper has the same high cheekbones, similar scars that cut across his cheek and his nose, and the beard to boot. What makes it unusual is that he seems to have been falling apart _before_ he came to the Nightmarescape. Soldier can’t say how he knows which wounds are old and which are a result of Reaper’s current living state. But his eyes make the image truly fall apart. Because _his_ eyes were not glowing blue embers in otherwise empty sockets. But that is all that Soldier needs to see, and he immediately relaxes.

He hands the mask back, and Reaper takes it, but he doesn’t put it back on. Just stares at it, blankly, as though it’s some alien device and he’s been asked to take it apart. “You’re fine,” Soldier says, giving Reaper a hearty thump on the shoulder. “However it happened, it’s in the past. If McCree recognizes you, he’ll need to get through me first before he so much as breathes in your direction.” Reaper looks up, sockets wide with genuine surprise, which looks odd on his face, destroyed as it is. Soldier is almost offended that Reaper would think otherwise.

Soldier shrugs. “I don’t like having you around. But I’d rather have a jackass watch my back than nothing at all.” Reaper nods, looks like he still can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re not...going to throw me out or anything, then?” 

“No.”

Reaper glances again between the mask and Soldier before he drops, completely unconscious in less than a moment.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read/have read the book, yell at me about it.
> 
> PS the best character is Larry and you can’t fucking change my mind


End file.
